


For All to See

by Highly_Illogical



Series: The Age That Should Have Been [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Court Sorcerer Merlin (Merlin), F/M, Friendship, Insecurity, Language of Flowers, Magic, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: The Day is ticking closer. The day Merlin is officially named Court Sorcerer, that is.Apparently, the proceedings involve a lot of practicing, frayed nerves, and nagging self-doubt, but luckily, Merlin is not without friends who will stay with him through thick and thin.





	For All to See

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S ALIIIIIIIIVE!  
> I'm still here. This series is still here. I realize the hiatus has been ridiculously long, but I ran into a number of problems and I'm now backtracking and adding a story that I'd been wanting to tackle for the longest time.  
> Enjoy!

He’s late.

Heart in his throat, Merlin sits up too fast, cursing inwardly as he pays for it with a dizzy spell.

Of all the days to be late! He’s in for it, Arthur will be furious, the ceremony will be immediately followed by the newly named Court Sorcerer’s execution if he doesn’t hurry.

He’s down the stairs in a flash, his morning routine a blur, drat, he didn’t remember there were quite so many stairs, no wonder Gaius is always complaining, it’s almost like the way down the tower has suddenly become longer just to spite him.

The castle is curiously empty as he makes his frantic way to the throne room, his footfalls echoing off the stone walls along with his heart, _thump-thump_ , come on now, he can still make it and not look like too much of an idiot, _thump-thump_ , the great doors are finally in sight and the guards are stepping aside to let him through...

This is it.

The day of recognition, the day of change.

The day he’s been promised all along, a simple country boy answering a persistent call in his mind and learning he had a destiny.

He makes an effort to stand taller and steps in. The assembled court is a spectacle of red and gold on either side of the aisle, and it feels impossibly long, but he’s rehearsed it until his feet felt like falling off, he can do it, a few more steps and he’ll be joining Arthur before the crowd, dropping to his knees as a manservant and rising as the first Court Sorcerer Camelot has had in too long.

As one, they all burst out laughing.

_Wait, what?_

Merlin looks down to escape their jeering and pointing, wishing for nothing better than for a chasm to open up in the floor and swallow him whole—oh, that would explain it.

He’s not wearing any trousers and treating the entire court to the sight of his bare, scrawny legs.

He jerks awake and sits up, struggling for air, momentarily confused by the repetition, he’s done that moments ago, he’s sure of it.

Oh. The first time must have been part of the dream. Again.

He mutters a stream of profanities that would turn Gaius’s hair even whiter. That was dream number five… no, six. At least the curious case of the disappearing trousers is a new one, and less distressing than the time the ceremony went swimmingly until Arthur asked him to demonstrate his magic and nothing came out at all. He’d had to light the candle on his bedside table after that one, like a snivelling child who was afraid of the dark. Just to be on the safe side. (The surge of relief he’d felt when the little flame obediently sprang to life with barely a thought still had him blushing.)

He’s reaching the end of his tether. That’s it, he’ll ask the old man for a sleeping draught strong enough to knock out a horse every night from here until The Day. He doesn’t think having bags under his eyes is Arthur’s idea of accessorizing.

And really, The Day should not have spontaneously acquired imaginary capital letters. It’s nothing more than a formality, a confirmation of what everyone who matters already knows. Things will change, certainly, but how much?

They are already changing, even if it’s just behind closed doors. He has yet to get used to the way the king no longer seems to have any qualms pondering the matters of state brought up by the council that day in his presence. Not that he didn’t do it before, but he used to at least pretend he wasn’t asking his servant for advice. It was more like a monologue, more of an ‘I wasn’t talking to _you_ , idiot, it’s called thinking aloud, not that I would expect you to be familiar with the concept’, a charade they used to keep up for the sake of his dignity, because of course he wasn’t regularly reading his papers, that’s bordering on treason, he was just tidying up, it’s a wonder he can read at all, what does he know?

Now, however, he’s taken to addressing him at random intervals in between his endless stream of words, speaking his name like a question, like his opinion is something valuable that can be sought openly, without shame, without hiding the request for his input under two or three layers of insults, like turning to him for help isn’t several rungs of the social ladder beneath him.

He isn’t a servant in much more than name these days. His chores feel like pretense, an elaborate ruse to avoid thinking about the promise hanging heavily in the air between them, the words _Court Sorcerer_ and _someday_ and _destiny_ filling the room with their invisible, cumbersome presence. He’s telling himself this is a trial run of sorts, that the long road to repealing Uther’s laws is just Fate’s way to give them both time to come to terms with it. It’s making the wait marginally more bearable.

Now they’ve come to the final bend in that road, and Merlin is wetting himself in fear. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should be happy about this, but no, it can’t be that easy.

He stumbles down the steps and mumbles something that only Gaius’s familiarity with his many sleepless nights allows him to interpret as ‘good morning’.

“Bad dreams again?”

He groans in the affirmative, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Thank the gods half of them are too ridiculous to be visions, or I’d be worried.”

“Says the one who jumps at small noises and nearly falls asleep on his feet in the middle of the day. You _are_ worried, don’t pretend.”

The physician dishes out breakfast for two – for one who spends most of his time hunched over a steaming pot, it’s astonishing how his idea of breakfast most days consists of unidentifiable slop, but at least it’s guaranteed to be healthy – and starts eating a bit too heartily, just to give himself an excuse to listen to his rant in silence. Bless these mornings. It’s more or less implied that Merlin will have his own quarters after The Day, but when Gaius just sits there and offers him a willing ear, he finds himself curiously unwilling to move out.

“Guess Arthur’s not the only one who needs to put on a brave face. I don’t want him to think I’m backing out of this, you know? With how far we’ve come, it would make no sense to give up now because I’m getting _stage fright_ , of all things. I do want this, I promise. It’s just… is it really necessary to do it with all that ridiculous fanfare?”

“That is just the way of the court, Merlin. It’s one day of strutting about like a peacock, then you can go back to your usual self. What harm can it do?”

“I’ll mess up, Gaius. Arthur will be so embarrassed. Back in the village, the biggest occasion we had was the harvest festival, which was only a bit of eating, drinking and dancing, and nobody cared if you ate like a slob or got your steps wrong. I’m not made for the court and you know it.” Case in point, rambling and swallowing his own breakfast at the same time is turning out to be rather a messy operation.

“Come, now, you’ve seen many such celebrations. Between the knighting ceremonies, the coronations, and heaven knows how many other excuses to host a banquet, you ought to have an idea of how these things go.”

“That’s different! You try going from pretending to be a piece of furniture to having the entire bloody court staring at you!” he snaps, regretting it before the words are even fully out of his mouth. “Sorry, it’s just…”

Gaius raises a placating hand. “I understand, up to a point. Someone with your background has twice as many reasons to be nervous, it’s true, but just look at Guinevere. Half the time, I can’t believe she’s gone from the girl who used to fetch me bandages to my queen, but there you have it, and she’s doing splendidly, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. If she can do it, so can you. Besides, I wouldn’t have guessed you to be so shy all of a sudden. What happened to that young, hopeful boy who just wanted to get some credit for his deeds? You’re finally getting it, aren’t you? Now is hardly the time to be a shrinking violet.”

That’s a good question. Too good, in fact, but then, that’s Gaius for you. With all the times he moaned and grumbled about not being recognized for what he did, this sudden trembling at the prospect of being paraded around for all to see seems a contradiction in terms. He supposes shying away from the public eye is a learned behavior for him. Swallow your pride, Merlin. Now is not the time, Merlin. Don’t attract attention, it’s safer if they don’t notice you, just try to exist as quietly as possible and you’ll be fine. Listen to everyone you love prattling on and on about how the one thing you’re good at is evil and dangerous and try not to let them see you bristle, that’s suspicious. Let them think you’re an idiot and wait, your day will come, but not today, maybe tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. Don’t breathe too loudly, or they’ll ask questions.

Now, for once in his life, he gets bragging rights, and he finds that he no longer wants them. The shroud of invisibility that comes from being a humble servant has grown comfortable on his shoulders and he has no desire to step out of the king’s convenient shadow and be seen. This life may not be ideal, but it’s familiar; the new one is riddled with unknowns. He knows, in abstract, that he’s on his rightful, destined path, but now that the goal is coming closer, he’s been seized once again by that terrible sensation from his early days, that tiny, niggling little voice he thought he’d managed to shove into a corner of his mind and silence—that destiny’s got the wrong person.

“Yeah. Funny story, that,” he answers a beat too late. “I’d like to know what happened to him too. Might have something to do with growing up.”

Gaius sighs. “For what it’s worth, I’d be proud of you even if you showed up with your clothes on backwards.”

“Gods, no, don’t give me any ideas,” he pleads. “That’s going to be my next nightmare.”

 

“I’ll need you to sharpen my sword, mend my shirt from yesterday’s training, clean my breeches, and in case you haven’t noticed, this room looks like a pigsty.”

Arthur’s eyes give a telltale flicker towards the door standing slightly ajar and Merlin rushes to close it, rigorously by hand. The king’s shoulders relax a fraction.

“And after however many _minutes_ that takes you, I’ll summon the tailor for the fitting.”

Please, not that, anything but that. He’d managed to put it completely out of his mind.

“Not another one,” he says, fully aware he sounds like a whining child.

“Unless you want to look like a buffoon rather than the Court Sorcerer, yes, another one, and as many as you need after that.”

“To be fair, Merlin’s got a point.” The look of betrayal on Arthur’s face at Gwen’s pronouncement almost makes him burst out laughing, but he’s too busy feeling a rush of gratitude. “If you hadn’t paid the man in advance, I’d do it myself.”

“That is preposterous, Guinevere. Honestly, have you forgotten you’re the queen?”

The look of guilt that flashes across her features tells him that maybe a part of her had, but it’s gone so quickly he might have imagined it.

“Better for the queen to stoop so low as to pick up a sewing kit than for Merlin to be subjected to that insufferable little man who will barely come near him for fear that he’ll curse him with his own pins and needles.”

Merlin swallows his questions about where, precisely, Gwen might have come across the idea. Sweet and caring she may be, but the crown on her head seems to have sharpened her mind and her tongue, and he’s irrationally glad she’s not his enemy.

“It still isn’t proper.”

“Well, I’ll be here for the fitting, and if the man tries anything, you can take your kingly propriety and—”

“I know where that sentence is going and I’m going to give you the opportunity not to finish it. You’ve made your thoughts quite clear on the matter, but a queen is not a seamstress, no matter that you used to be the best in the city. Your part in this is not to fix Merlin’s clothes for the occasion.”

“Then what is my part? Smiling and looking pretty? Excuse me for having an actual skill that could come in handy.”

Great, now this senseless charade is sowing disagreement between the king and queen, as if it weren’t complicated enough as it is. Merlin watches the disaster unfold like he’s watching Gaius treat a gruesome wound: it would be much wiser to look away from the spectacle, but the worse it gets, the more he’s drawn in.

“Between the tailor and seeing the two of you fight, I’ll take ten solid hours at the man’s mercy,” he cuts them off. “It’s not that your idea doesn’t have merit, Gwen, gods know I’d feel better if you were taking care of it, but please, just let it rest. I know you’re there for me, even if you’re just smiling and looking pretty. It’s the thought that counts.”

Gwen flashes him a smile. “Thanks, Merlin. I guess this whole thing has us all on edge, not just you.”

“You’ve noticed, eh?”

“How blind do you think I am? Even the walls have noticed by now, and I can’t blame you a single bit. Now come on, the sooner you get started on the tyrant’s to-do list, the sooner you can put that stupid fitting behind you. It’ll take your mind off things.”

“Who are you calling a tyrant?” There’s no heat in it; such an accusation from anyone else would sting and quite possibly warrant a sword to the throat, but they both know it was said in jest.

“Right away, Your Majesty.”

“How come it doesn’t sound sarcastic when you say it to her?”

Merlin gives an exaggerated shrug. “That’s a mystery that may never be solved.” Was that _too_ sarcastic? Maybe a little. “Now let me get on with it. Hard work, you know. I may even have to skip lunch to comply with my king’s demands.”

A muttered incantation and a flash of gold later, the rumpled bedsheets bear no evidence that anyone’s slept in them. He doesn’t miss the days when pulling off a stunt like that had his heart beating like that of a startled rabbit and made him feel like a dirty cheater to boot.

As the last of the decorative pillows pile up at the head of the bed of their own accord, he chances a look at Arthur, who is openly gaping at the spectacle.

“Wonder if I’ll get used to it when I’m old and grey,” he comments, not sounding nearly as offhanded as he probably thinks. At least he’s moved on from frightened to impressed. Maybe. He just hopes he can sleep soundly knowing how his bed was made.

The rest of his chores are similarly dispatched, and Arthur doesn’t even say anything about the sword and whetstone dancing in midair, which is a minor miracle. It’s certainly a far cry from the time, not too long ago, when he told him in no uncertain terms that doing his laundry with magic was one thing, but to please refrain from maintaining his weapons and armor the same way, for a warrior had to know them as well as he knew his own limbs and there was no way to know what magic might do to them. (Reminding him that Excalibur was positively humming with magic and he wielded it just fine had shut down that line of reasoning right quick.) Whether progress comes in leaps and bounds or in tiny little scraps, it’s still progress.

And speaking of progress, or lack thereof, Merlin’s stomach twists into knots as Arthur sticks his head out of the room and sends the nearest serving boy to fetch the tailor. It’s not even the fact that spending ungodly amounts of time being poked, prodded and just generally manhandled is not precisely his idea of a fun morning, it’s the man’s attitude about it all. Almost a full head shorter than him and with an oily manner that seems to have spilled over into his mousy hair, it’s so greasy, the tailor seems to be constantly torn between two opposing impulses: he is visibly thrilled that the king has selected him for the job, for the money it brings if not for the honor of being admitted into his confidence, but the way his face fell when he was told his client was a sorcerer still stings when he thinks about it.

Officially, no one but the king’s inner circle knows; unofficially, the number of people who are in on the secret has been steadily expanding, and he isn’t at all sure he likes the effects. The first to know beyond the royal couple and their most trusted knights was Geoffrey, but that was more a product of necessity than of the king’s particular favor: after Gaius vouched for his old friend repeatedly, Arthur had gone to the elderly record-keeper to create a written document attesting to Merlin’s full pardon, and so it had begun.

After Geoffrey came the steward, who has to know what it is they’re preparing for, after all, and that, in Merlin’s opinion, had been the lowest point of their covert operation to break the news to a few select people as gently as possible. Holden, for all that he does his job admirably, runs the castle like a hardened sea captain runs his ship in a storm and would delight in having slackers tied to the mast and whipped if only he had a mast, a whip, or the authority to do so. He’s stayed on as steward under Arthur, but before that came a long and honorable career being to his father what Merlin is to the son, and that is enough to raise Merlin’s hackles. He would have been quite content letting Holden be the last man in the kingdom to know, if necessity hadn’t once again reared its ugly head. Telling him had been like telling Uther in miniature: the man noticeably swallowed his tirade and pasted on a bland smile to appease the king, all the while looking at him like you would look at something unpleasant stuck to the sole of your shoe. They hadn’t exchanged more than five words since.

After Holden came the tailor, who’s still working on that monstrosity that is to be his outfit for The Day with trembling hands and visibly reminding himself of the handsome compensation that is in it for him—some in advance, to buy his silence as well as his fine work, and some when it’s completed, which Merlin fervently hopes is today, because he frankly cannot wait to be rid of him.

After the tailor, who swears up and down he’s not the source of the leak, came the small task force of staff selected to get everything ready for his investiture as Court Sorcerer, each hand-picked by the king himself for their utmost discretion. Except that said task force, if you ask him, isn't small at all. Perhaps it’s because he’s so used to thinking that the only appropriate number of people who are aware of it is none, but it seems like half the bloody castle knows all of a sudden, and they’re not taking it well. Either Holden has been poisoning the staff against him, or Arthur has gone and done something strategic, like allowing Gwaine to spill the beans drunkenly within earshot of exactly the right gossiping kitchen maid. (The man has actually cut back on his ale to prevent just such a scenario since he found out, which, coming from him, is nothing short of astonishing.) Judging by the looks he’s getting in the halls, his money’s on the former. Honestly, at this point, he’s just praying the rumors don’t get twisted into a ridiculous story in which the king and queen are both enchanted out of their minds and haven’t been thinking for themselves since the first day he came to Camelot.

A quick knock on the door alerts them to the arrival of the tailor, who bustles in with a full load of fabric and other tools of his trade that only Gwen has any hope of understanding, very nearly dropping them in his hurry to bow and scrape.

“Your Majesties,” he greets deferentially, bent almost double; then he rises, takes in his presence, and Merlin can practically hear the poor man’s brain straining to come up with the appropriate protocol for the situation. “M-Master Merlin.” He drops into a tremulous _something_ that is more than a nod and less than a bow, then sends him a look that clearly says he’s half expecting to be turned into an ant and summarily crushed underfoot for his blunder.

There's no general agreement on what they're supposed to call him now. This whole ‘master’ nonsense is his own compromise; poor, timid Beatrice, bless her, once gave up her place in line at the pump for him, tried for ‘sir’, remembered with dawning horror that the prospective Court Sorcerer is not quite the same as a knight, and ran without bothering to get her water.

“Good morning. I trust you’ve been making progress,” says Arthur, clipped and businesslike.

“O-of course, sire. I hope the latest modifications are to your liking.”

“It’s not me you have to please, for once.”

“Right you are, sire, of course, a-anything for our f-future Court S-Sorcerer.”

Merlin's not even wearing the thing and he’s close to tears of frustration already. He counts internally to ten and stops himself from suggesting rather briskly that the only magic the man needs is a spell to stop stammering right this instant.

The tailor finally proffers the soft bundle he’s been carrying and Merlin retires behind the changing screen with a sigh.

“Sire, a-are you certain he doesn’t need any help?” It’s hard to tell if he’s offering out of courtesy or because he prefers to keep an eye on him at all times, fearful that the screen erected to protect the king’s privacy has suddenly become the repository of heaven knows what sorcerous paraphernalia.

Merlin holds his breath as he unwraps the rough canvas meant to shield the treasure within from the dust and dirt of the trip to the castle, half reluctant to handle something so fine, half anxious to see how it’s changed since last time.

After much discussion, they’ve decided on a set of robes like Gaius might wear, because it’s ‘dignified’, no matter that Merlin is still struggling to contain his hysterical laughter at the very idea, because his Dragoon disguise had come from somewhere in the recesses of his mentor’s wardrobe, so if Arthur’s grand plan is to dress him up as the general populace’s worst idea of what a sorcerer ought to look like, he’s certainly succeeding. Gods help him. If it were up to him, he’d show up in the same ratty old jacket and neckerchief he always throws on in the morning, but no, between Arthur’s grandiose ideas and Gwen’s childlike glee at having a doll to play with like she used to as a little girl, that’s not going to happen anytime soon.

All right, so maybe the thing is not _completely_ horrible. Maybe he even likes it more than he’ll ever admit to the king’s face, deep down, once you’ve gotten past two or three layers of nerves at the thought of wearing it in public.

It’s the deepest blue he’s ever seen, a shade removed from black, and his breath had stuttered when the snivelling little man had rolled out the uncut cloth for him to see, because the price of a thing like that is something his mind fails to comprehend. He’s not even certain what fabric it is, just that his arms sink a little with the weight of it, because he keeps forgetting that it’s heavier than it looks.

He shakes it out and he’s really not sure whether he ought to grin in delight or wince. He already thought it was too much at the previous fitting, when the thing was no more than a rough draft that, as the tailor assured him in his most sugary, stammering tones, did not do justice to his ability. Now he can see what he meant, and… frankly, the robe has grown into a monster. A very pretty monster, but those are the worst kind, they lure you in with false promises and swallow you whole.

He thinks he’s shortened it a little, just enough that it doesn’t quite sweep the floor like a woman’s gown (it will be _months_ before Arthur lets him live down that silly bit of excess fabric), but what stands out the most is the unmistakable gleam of gold at the edges, a mirror to Arthur’s own finery that definitely wasn’t there before. No wonder it’s grown even heavier than last time: he’s intimately acquainted with how cumbersome true goldwork can be from playing tug-of-war with the king’s clothes trying to get him ready for this or that banquet. Honestly, the only time he thinks a man ought to be wearing actual metal is when he’s in armor, and last time he checked, he wasn’t marching into battle. Hopefully.

He has to admit it’s tastefully done: the glinting embroidery snakes up the borders in gentle patterns that put him in mind of climbing vines, culminating in a high collar that must have been added only recently, and he swears the contrast is like stars against the sky and this is what it must feel like to cut off a piece of the heavens to drape around himself. He suspects it’s Gwen’s tempering influence that led to a subtle design that won’t make him look like a richer version of a jester: she’s enjoying her silks and jewels as much as any young woman who finally has the means to give in to vanity, but she hasn’t completely taken leave of her common sense, thank the gods, and knows full well that the transition from rough homespun cloth to fine velvet and threads of silver and gold is enough to make him break out in a cold sweat thinking of the cost.

Merlin slips it on, his fingers fumbling with the fastening entirely too much for such a simple task, and he actively has to remind himself not to slouch as the unusual weight settles on his shoulders. The collar is uncomfortably tight around his throat and he swallows against the stiffness. How is he meant to survive the whole affair in this? He fiddles and pulls at the offending part, but it’s no use: the rigid, itchy thing is starched solid and won’t relent. That’s all Arthur, he’s sure of it—payback for all the teasing he gave him for complaining of the same thing, or an underhanded way to get him to hold his head high like he never could in rehearsal.

“If you’re quite done twirling like a girl in there, some of us would actually like to see. I don’t have all day, you know.”

Merlin steps out from behind the screen and isn’t at all certain his sudden difficulty breathing is to blame on the collar. The robe is without a doubt a thing of beauty and he feels like an ungrateful wretch for even thinking it, but parading around in it, he’s sure he looks like nothing but a fool wearing a mask that doesn’t belong to him.

Gwen is nodding her enthusiastic approval, but the men don’t seem to be quite as enthused. The tailor is watching him like a child presenting his latest achievement to a stern parent, pride for his work warring in his eyes with fear of judgement, and as for Arthur, he’s looking him critically up and down as if searching for faults in the swordsmanship of a recruit who’s still wet behind the ears.

“I love it!”

“Still missing something.”

The two opposing verdicts come at the same time and Merlin is sure the tailor has already squirreled away the news of the dissension for the gossip mill.

“P-perhaps we should replace the fastening, sire?” comes his little squeak of a suggestion. “S-something a tad more elaborate to go with the embroidery, a touch of red w-wouldn’t go amiss…”

“Or,” Gwen counters, and there’s a hint of steel from her father’s forge as she speaks, “you could talk to Merlin directly rather than addressing him by proxy, considering that he’s the one wearing it and the final decision rests with him.”

He gulps, and Merlin doesn’t envy his position—chastised by the queen herself and not too cordially invited to do the one thing he’d been trying to avoid in one fell swoop.

“C-certainly,” he says, his voice cracking more than ever and his gaze coming to rest somewhere in the region of Merlin’s forehead in a passable imitation of eye contact. “O-only, I got the impression that you weren’t o-overly concerned with fashion, M-Master Merlin.”

If nothing else, the man has a talent for understatement. He doesn’t know the first thing about what you ought to wear at such an event: he’s barely given any input at all throughout the whole process, trusting that Arthur’s lifelong experience with the intricacies of the court combined with Gwen’s natural good taste will save him from immediate social suicide.

“That wasn’t an impression. I can tell this is good work, but that is all I can say. I put comfort first and appearance second, a very distant second, no offense.”

“None t-taken, of course, I expect you have other p-priorities.” Like what, skulking about in the dead of night sacrificing children? If the way he’s cowering is anything to go by, he must be thinking along those lines. “Th-then perhaps the sleeves c-could stand to be a little more, er, close-fitting?”

He tugs a little on his left sleeve, barely putting any force in it, but just enough for Merlin to take the hint that he should hold out his arm demonstratively for his audience of two. Here we go. Next, they’ll be checking his age by looking at his teeth, like a horse at the market. Then he pinches the cloth so that the sleeve tightens, wrapping the excess around his forearm for effect, and looks expectantly first at him, then at the king. His gestures are practiced, his demeanor nothing but professional, but he can feel his hand shaking minutely as he goes.

Arthur and Gwen take one look at each other and she voices what they’re clearly both thinking: “No, scratch that.”

The tailor promptly lets go. “B-but then, what is His Majesty d-dissatisfied with?”

“He’s just being his usual perfectionist self. Come, now, Arthur, I don’t see what could possibly be missing, it’s fine.”

“It’s supposed to be a momentous occasion.”

The thing with taking sides when Arthur and Gwen disagree is that it feels like he’s committing treason either way, but this time, he’s definitely leaning towards the queen’s opinion, because gods, how he yearns to call it good and move on.

“You may have different standards, Arthur, but how is this not momentous?” he says, gesturing broadly at himself. The stupid sleeves feel like miniature wings flapping about with every move. “The only thing missing to complete the picture is a pointy hat!”

The king’s eyes gleam with mischief and the tailor visibly balks at the easy familiarity between them.

“Now that’s an idea…”

“What? Arthur, no, that’s where I draw the line.”

“Why? I seem to recall you looked quite fetching with a hat.”

“And I seem to recall we had an agreement not to mention the feathered monstrosity ever again.”

“Fine, have it your way.” Then, turning to the tailor: “Clearly, I’m outnumbered. Shall we discuss the other half of the payment somewhere more private?”

The money pouch he goes to retrieve from his desk looks far too heavy. Once again, Merlin cringes internally at how much wealth must have changed hands for this piece alone, and the man has already announced his plans to have his entire wardrobe replaced by something befitting of his new station. He’s heard minstrels praising Arthur’s generosity and burst with pride listening to their songs, but when it’s directed at him, it’s damn hard not to let it feel like charity.

By the time they’ve finished their negotiations and stepped back in for the tailor to retrieve his unused tools, Merlin is back to his usual fare, the robe neatly folded and hopefully to remain untouched until The Day. The little man gives his simpering goodbyes and scurries off, though whether he’s satisfied that his work needed no more fixing or just relieved that he hardly had to come near the fearsome sorcerer at all is anybody’s guess. He isn’t an altogether bad sort, he supposes, but Merlin is glad to see the back of him. His manner feels oddly like an omen, a sad preview of what his interactions are to be, either feared or reviled until magic truly comes back.

“Arthur, we need to talk.”

“All right, then talk. I’m listening.”

“Look, it’s beautiful, I’m not saying I don’t like it, but… how much?”

There’s a flicker of unease in the king’s eyes, and the answer takes far too long to come.

“A reasonable amount, given the circumstances.” In other words, Merlin is better off not knowing.

“I’m not sure I can—”

“Consider it back payment for the work you’ve done without my knowledge all these years.”

“That wasn’t why I did it and you know it.” He’s not sure when his motivation for saving his royal backside on a weekly basis shifted from the grandiose talk of destiny that the dragon managed to put into his head to just helping his best friend, but he never expected compensation for either.

“Merlin?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and take it.”

“In your defense, at least you have a better concept of a reward than your father ever had.”

Arthur claps him on the shoulder painfully, like a man who doesn’t know his own strength. “He got us stuck together. Let’s not take away the one merit he had.”

 

“And do you swear allegiance to Camelot, now and for as long as you shall live?”

“I, Merlin of Ealdor, do pledge life and limb to your service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples.”

“Well, you know how the rest goes.”

He can’t help it: the end of every single rehearsal feels like missing a step in a staircase. Merlin rises to his feet and tries his best to mask his disappointment. It’s well past sunset, the only sensible time they can commandeer the throne room to go over the procedure, and perhaps it will be easier, in the scarce light, to hide that all he’s asking for is to hear the sound of the king’s final planned reply, the one officially proclaiming him Court Sorcerer.

“Can’t you finish properly, just this once?”

“No.”

“A little sneak peek? For practice?”

“Out of the question.”

“Why can’t you just say it?”

“I’m the king, you great… you absolute… _dollophead_! Of course I can’t say it!”

“Still my word, and I still don’t understand why.”

“We have witnesses,” he says tightly, eyes flickering to Gwen, standing stock still in her designated position on the dais, and then to Gwaine, who has invited himself to the trial run just to whoop and holler as he goes by and give unhelpful advice from the sidelines, interjecting “Let’s not trip over our feet, eh, mate?” and “Say it like you mean it!” at the most inconvenient times.

“Yes, and they’re both witness to the fact that I’d like to hear you say that last bit at least once before it actually happens.” _So that my heart doesn’t give out right then and there_ , he refrains from adding. _Give a man some warning._

“For the last time, Merlin, I am the king of Camelot, and if I say that last part in front of witnesses, it’s as good as done already. Don’t you get it? What I say matters. Sure, it isn’t official until it’s put in writing, but in the eyes of the people, what makes a man a knight is my word, hell, what made Guinevere a queen was my word. There’s no such thing as saying it before it happens, because my saying it _makes_ it happen. You, of all people, should be very familiar with words carrying power.”

“That’s not the same!”

Isn’t it, though? There’s no magic in the words they’ve puzzled over again and again, reading and re-reading them with every inflection under the sun and furiously crossing out the ones with unintended implications until they finally left the parchment to dry and shook on it, ink-splattered fingers grasping forearms in giddy promise. And yet… he’ll be entering the room as one thing and coming out as another, and isn’t that as life-altering as any spell and more? Perhaps Arthur has the right of it: a king needs no incantations to make things happen with his words alone.

“Not in the way you’re used to, perhaps. Speaking of which, have you finally come up with something?”

Merlin’s mouth goes dry. “Er—almost?”

“‘Almost’ isn’t good enough, Merlin! Honestly, how hard can it be?”

They’ve agreed that Merlin should conclude the ceremony with a small demonstration for the audience, a moment that has featured prominently in his surreal nightly repeats of this long-rehearsed dance. Nothing earth-shattering, just a way to show the people that his first act as Court Sorcerer is harmless. It’s highly irregular: it’s not as though newly named knights are required to have a sparring match right there in the throne room to showcase their prowess in combat, or the queen was asked to issue a royal decree within seconds of being crowned. But then again, there’s nothing about this that is remotely regular.

And so Arthur, like the complete unhelpful cabbagehead that he is, has left it up to him to decide what said demonstration will be, provided that it complies with the following requirements: it must be something he can do at a moment’s notice without any strange equipment, because it wouldn’t do to walk up the aisle laden down with who knows what trinkets; it must be memorable, but in a dignified way, don’t even think of pulling a ridiculous prank or it’s the stocks for a month; it must be impressive, but protect the delicate sensibilities of the ladies of the court and not be too frightening. Yeah. No big deal.

He literally has no idea what to do, and Arthur knows it. At this rate, he’ll have to wing it, as usual.

“Then come up with something yourself!”

“You’re supposed to be the expert, Merlin. Do you even want this job or not?”

Merlin recoils as though slapped across the face. “I do, Arthur, I swear! It’s just… that maybe I’m not the right person for it after all.”

He turns on his heel and stalks off before the king can reply, his hasty retreat chased by Gwaine’s bitter remark of “Way to go, princess!” and feet too light to be his running after him.

One look over his shoulder confirms it: Gwen has taken it upon herself to corral the wayward warlock and probably haul him back to the throne room by his oversized ear. No sign of Arthur, but that’s probably because Gwaine somehow convinced him to let his wife handle it. She’s not even trying to stop him, just following him like a hound that’s sniffed some prey, and really, she’s not following him anywhere in particular, because he has no clue where he’s going.

He has no idea why he said that, either; he probably wasn’t completely aware that he’d been thinking it until it came out of his big, stupid mouth. What if Arthur takes him seriously and calls it off? He wants it, really, he does, but between his fitful sleep and fussing over his clothes and worrying about such ridiculousness as walking up to the thrones properly, neither too fast nor too slow and looking like a nobleman with a stick up his arse, he’s falling apart at the seams. Why can’t that insufferable clotpole just grab the first couple of witnesses he sees, say his piece, and let it be over without all this needless production?

He stops, finally, in a secluded alcove out of the many that punctuate the corridors, but that’s not his destination, exactly, it’s more like his legs just give out and he slides limply to the floor, his back to the wall for support. Gwen follows suit without a word, her legs folded beneath her and her gown pooling around her in a most un-queenly manner.

“How do you do it, Gwen?”

“Do what?”

“All of this. Wearing fancy things and smiling just right and whatever else it is that people with a _title_ and a _station_ are supposed to do. How are you still sane?”

“Honestly? I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

“What about the other half?”

“I just try my best to take my cues from Arthur, because he obviously knows how to play the game, and spend the rest of the time catching up on everything a queen should know. I won’t lie and say it’s easy, but I’m getting by.”

“You’re more than getting by, Gwen. I always knew you’d make a terrific queen.”

“Yeah? And by what magic did you know that, oh great and powerful sorcerer?”

“I have eyes. You _care_ , the rest just followed.”

Gwen smiles a slow, deliberate smile that sets off warning bells in Merlin’s mind. He doesn’t know exactly how, but he’s just dug his own grave, he’s sure of it.

“Then by that reasoning, I know you’ll do great.”

Well, that was clever. He’s cornered like a mouse that strayed across the path of a cat, and she’s playing with him before going in for the kill.

“Why?” he indulges her.

“You _care_ , the rest will just follow.”

“All right, you got me.”

“So will you stop this nonsense about not being the right person?”

“But what if it isn’t nonsense?”

“Merlin.” She looks at him with an air of fond exasperation. “When it comes down to it, what _is_ a Court Sorcerer’s job?”

“But that’s just the point, I don’t know. Nobody does. We’re making it up as we go along. But I suppose… to advise the king wherever magic is concerned and to use it in service of the kingdom, just like the oath says.”

“Right, and you’re telling me you haven’t been doing that since your first day?”

Note to self: never argue with the queen. Since when is Gwen so good at making you say exactly what she wants and using it against you?

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“See? Merlin, you’ve been Court Sorcerer in all but name for years. All this little charade means is you’ll get to do it with more smiling and waving and less sneaking around, and it’s no less than you deserve.”

“Thank you. For… everything.”

Gwen reaches out to hug him, and all he can think for a moment is that they must make quite the picture, the queen and the almost-Court Sorcerer secreted away in a corner in an awkward tangle of limbs on the floor, he backed up against a wall, she with her skirts rumpled beyond all hope of salvaging. It would be several kinds of inappropriate, if not for the fact that they shared a grand total of one kiss that wasn’t entirely friendly in nature and, by mutual agreement, they _do not talk about it_.

She breaks their embrace first and stands up, making a futile attempt at making herself somewhat presentable.

“Come on, up you get. They’ll be wondering where we disappeared to.”

She takes his hand to help him to his feet, but he resists her.

“Since you’re in the mood for giving good advice, you wouldn’t happen to have an idea for the demonstration too, would you? Seems like a good way to apologize for walking out on him.”

“You don’t have to apologize to anyone. If anything, it’s Arthur who went and put his foot in his mouth, but I suppose we all have our part of the blame. I told you, you’re not the only one who’s nervous. We’ve all been saying things we don’t mean. Now come on, I won’t have you sulking in a corner any longer. We can discuss your demonstration on our way back.”

“I’m not sulking.” Merlin gets to his feet just to prove his point, which is probably exactly what she was angling for, again.

“Much better. Now, what have you got? Unless ‘almost’ was a blatant lie, that is.”

“I’m not sure. Something like this, but bigger?”

He whispers a spell over his cupped hands and the space between them quivers, flutters, and a single butterfly of vivid blue emerges from his fingers. Gwen’s jaw drops a little as she tracks its erratic flight.

“It’s beautiful.”

The butterfly alights on the tip of her nose, drawing a startled giggle. She scrunches up her face at the tickling sensation, dislodging it from its chosen perch.

“And it has good taste, too,” he says, making a great show of taking her hand and kissing it deferentially. The corny joke reminds him exactly why he nixed the idea. “Although, last time someone conjured butterflies right under the court’s noses, one of them landed on Lady Vivian, so they’re not exactly the best judges of character.”

Gwen frowns at the memory of that spectacular cluster of misunderstanding and heartbreak. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to bring it up, then. All right, no butterflies.” She starts back in the direction they came from and he scrambles to follow. “Anything else? I’d love to be of help, but I don’t know the first thing about what you can or cannot do.”

Merlin opts not to say that it’s probably easier to list the latter.

“I don’t know, I’m stuck. I’m not exactly used to showing off, as you can very well imagine.”

“You can show off for me,” says Gwen, and it’s so incongruous to be _asked_ for it that he gapes openly at her. “You know, for practice. You’ve been working so hard on everything else, I thought you might want to practice something you actually enjoy for a change.”

He shrugs and casts around for ideas. Someone’s clearly been through here with a torch, lighting its fellows in the wall sconces to illuminate the path for any evening stragglers, but there are only the two of them to enjoy the regular patches of warm, flickering light in this seldom used passage.

“Well, there’s always my favorite trick in the book, but it might be a bit much for the swooning ladies. You, on the other hand… you’re every inch a lady, but not the swooning kind, so here you go.” He extends a hand towards the nearest torch. “ _Upastige draca_.”

The flame roars to life, spitting a stream of sparks that coalesce at his command into the shape of a dragon. The beast flaps its wings a couple of times as if preening for the queen, then dissolves into nothingness, and it’s Gwen’s turn to gape.

“Merlin, it’s perfect.”

“You think? Won’t it send them running for the hills?”

“No, I mean… I know what was missing at the fitting this morning. The demonstration definitely needs to be tamer.”

Merlin grins as he puts two and two together. Yes, that’s _exactly_ what was missing.

“You know, the only time I ever played with my magic like this for someone was—” His heart clenches at the memory of candle flames dancing in the air for Freya, reflected in her eyes full of simple, carefree delight for once in her life. The rest of the words won’t come out.

“It’s all right, I get the idea.”

“Wait a minute.” He’s just been struck by another memory of his short-lived love and he can’t help but send his mental thanks in the general direction of the Lake of Avalon, because he wouldn’t put it past her to have sent a little spark of inspiration his way in his time of need. “Gwen, I know it’ll sound like a strange question, but what’s your favorite flower?”

“Er, I like irises, why?”

“Then I suggest you wear something that matches.”

“Oh. _Oh!_ You can do that? Seriously?” She slaps his arm playfully, with no ill intent behind it. “I didn’t take you for such an incorrigible flirt. Careful, there, we wouldn’t want Arthur to think he has competition.” She doesn’t mean a word of it: there’s laughter bubbling underneath her words, this close to surfacing. Merlin can’t remember being so at ease in… too long. He might even sleep through the night, if he’s lucky.

“Never. We don’t talk about that, remember?”

 

When The Day comes, Merlin wakes up unnaturally alert, as though he’d skipped the groggy phase between sleep and wakefulness entirely. Desperate for something to do with his hands, he splashes cold water on his face and scrubs like a madman, then sets about wrestling with his stupid hair, because of course it would choose this morning to look like a bird’s nest.

“’Morning. I’m just going to assume that scrubbing your face red is your chosen strategy to hide the fact that you’re looking faintly green.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“At least have some breakfast. I don’t recommend doing this on an empty stomach.”

The only reason he manages to force something down is that he doesn’t want to disrupt the proceedings with an embarrassing rumble from going hungry.

“You’ll be fine, Merlin. You worked so hard for this, now it’s time to reap the rewards. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Tell that to my stomach.”

When he descends from the tower, it’s to find the castle abuzz with the final preparations for the reception that is to follow his investiture, and somehow, seeing the staff flitting about like busy bees carrying table linens and candlesticks and goodness knows what else makes it all too real. These are people who used to work alongside him, laugh at his tales of Arthur’s particular brand of prattishness, and occasionally help him with his smelly socks, never knowing their fellow servant had any greater secrets to hide than a roll in the hay with some girl from the lower town. Now they’re all scurrying out of his way, and he can tell who knows and who doesn’t by the reason they’re doing so: if they scamper in fear or send him dirty looks and go out of their way to avoid crossing his path, they’ve been told, and if they look at him blankly, failing to recognize their old acquaintance just because he’s cleaned up a bit, and only let him pass because he has the attire of a man who outranks them, they’re just humble serving boys and girls sent to do menial tasks in ignorance of why they’re doing them.

For about half a horrifying second, Merlin is worried that his magic is acting up, because there is _no way_ that one minute he’s grumbling under his breath about the nerve-wracking waiting game he has to play, and the next he’s been summoned and he’s getting ready for his cue, standing at the very back as the dazzling procession of knights and ladies in their best finery spreads out in the throne room, swapping rumors. But no, that’s just how time flows when you’re nervous, in great fits and starts that make very little sense, slowing down when you want it to hurry and going by in a flash when you’d really rather it didn’t pass at all.

By the nature of their whispering, it’s clear that not all of them know why the king has asked them to gather here on this fine day: some are smug, withholding the secret from their neighbors for effect or for whatever intricate political reason, others have guessed the gist of it, having heard the words ‘Court Sorcerer’ bouncing from mouth to mouth, but are nowhere close to imagining the mystery man’s identity and swear that they’ve heard from Sir Olwin’s sister’s chambermaid that the king must have hired someone from Mercia, no, definitely from Nemeth, no, from the continent, even. Funny how Essetir isn’t even in the picture.

And then the king and queen make their resplendent entrance, silencing the gossip mill at once, and gods above, Gwen has taken his playful suggestion seriously and chosen the purple gown, the one that had her quailing when she saw it and was forcefully reminded of her new royal status. His stomach is suddenly one giant knot of apprehension. Any minute now. He seeks out Gaius in the crowd for comfort, but the hall is too packed for him to pick out his distinctive white head.

Arthur and Gwen climb the steps to their twin thrones and turn to face the audience, but only she bothers to sit, for he has something to say that is best said standing. All right on schedule. He can only hope he doesn’t swoon like a girl before his turn.

“Greetings, people of Camelot,” he begins, and his voice, so calm and assured, is a balm to his frantic heart. If not because the attentive crowd is still showing signs of fidgeting, blinking, and being alive in general, he would truly believe he accidentally stopped time, because a preternatural stillness seems to have come over him. He knows this. He’s heard so many minute variations of this that he can confidently predict what comes next, hell, he has proofread the thing for him. The king’s words carry to every corner as he launches into his speech.

“You are all aware, I’m certain, of the recent changes in the kingdom’s policies regarding the practice of sorcery. In lifting the absolute ban on all forms of magic that was the cornerstone of my late father’s rule, I did not presume to erase or dishonor over two decades of his heritage, nor to inspire in all of you the change of heart that led to my decision. His Majesty King Uther Pendragon ruled with a firm hand, and upon his passing, I found that the kingdom he entrusted me with was a prosperous one. But every king has the God-given right and duty to leave his own mark on the land, and it should be little wonder that the son’s mark is not the same as the father’s.”

Arthur looks straight at the spot where he knows Merlin to be as he leaves the inevitable mention of Uther behind and moves on, and by now it’s little more than a countdown, he isn’t so much listening as ticking off the words one by one on an imaginary list that leads to the moment he’s anticipating and dreading in equal parts.

“I have been… rather rudely faced with circumstances that forced me to reconsider whether the use of enchantments was morally acceptable, and my conclusions did not match my predecessor’s.”

Circumstances? They hadn’t agreed to talk about those circumstances, he’s going off script, the absolute turniphead! He’ll… he’ll… oh, right, he’ll no longer be in a position to steal from his breakfast tray in petty revenge.

“For a kingdom to grow and prosper, everyone must do their part to the best of their ability and in the field of their choosing.” Right, back on track, he knows this part, let’s try to make it to the end without any more heart attacks, please.

“Some may pledge their lives to the protection of the kingdom and become knights,” his gaze sweeps the cluster of red cloaks in the front rows as he says it, “others may vow to dedicate themselves to the study of natural science and ensure the continued health of our citizens,” so that’s where Gaius disappeared to, good to know, “and we should not discount the contribution of those whose hard work guarantees that our food stores are always plentiful.” And here it comes. Any second.

“Magic, I have found, is a field like any other, whose fruits may be used for good or ill.” Merlin stands a fraction straighter, half in pride and half in preparation. The signal is coming.

“Some may make it their life’s work to delve into its secrets, others may be born with an innate predisposition.” Is he _deliberately_ trying to off his Court Sorcerer before he can name him? This wasn’t planned! How much longer is he going to let him stand there waiting?

“But however one may come by his ability to wield magic, a kingdom that admits the practice cannot hope to flourish without welcoming it into the very heart of the royal court. That is why,” here it is, his cue to sidle discreetly away from his little corner and into his designated spot at the other end of the aisle from Arthur, “we are gathered here today to witness the culmination of the recent decree that repealed the prohibition of sorcery.”

Whispers erupt all around him as he moves, some annoyed, from attentive listeners craning their necks to look past him at the king, others flabbergasted as the distorted gossip clashes with the truth in their minds and they realize what’s going on.

It’s only a few steps at most from where he’d been standing to where the long road to the dais begins, but somehow, they matter more than the whole trek down the aisle. His years of hiding are over: just by taking those few steps, he is declaring his identity. To his never-ending astonishment, it’s less terrifying than he thought. He regrets whining about the endless rehearsals now, for he finally sees the benefit of fine-tuning the process until he could walk through it unthinkingly: it feels like nothing more than a repetition, he knows he can do it simply by virtue of having done it before. Although his chest is fit to burst, he is enjoying a clarity of mind and a swiftness of feet that will be the subject of the king’s teasing for years to come. It’s just another dance, and he knows the tune by heart.

“I have asked for your presence to announce to the court and to the kingdom at large that I am reinstating the position of Court Sorcerer, which was abolished in the effort to eradicate magic from Camelot.”

He stops, because not even the king has enough power to demand silence at this point. The whispering has reached its tipping point, the court sounds like a swarm of angry hornets, some of it is devolving into shouting, and Merlin can only take his small comfort from the fact that a fraction of that shouting is being led by Gwaine, his infectious cheer a counterpoint to the anger and fear spreading through the crowd like poison.

And then Gwen stands, right on cue, and he doesn’t know if it’s because the king and queen are presenting a united front and the courtiers have decided it’s wiser to save their dissension for later or because she’s looking at them like a mother who’s disappointed in her children’s mad antics, but the explosion slowly dies down. It’s nothing short of a miracle, but at least he’s not being trampled by an enraged mob: that hadn’t come up in his nightmares, but he’s considered it quite enough times while awake.

“For those of you who are not aware of what the title entails,” Arthur explains, and there can’t be many people in the room to whom it applies, because the court, too, is something he largely inherited from Uther, most of them are old enough to have seen magic users in court and loyal enough to the dead king’s memory to be disgusted to see one again, “the Court Sorcerer is to be considered a fully qualified member of the king’s council, with all the honors and burdens that come with the position. His function is to be my primary advisor in all matters of magic that may arise, providing expertise so that I may judge them with justice and mercy as I am sworn to do as your sovereign, and to do his utmost to avert any dangers of a magical nature that may threaten the safety and integrity of the kingdom and its citizens.”

He’s acutely aware that they’re no longer looking at Arthur: their ears may be wide open, but their eyes are all on him, some questioning how it’s even possible for a sorcerer to be a defender of the kingdom at all, having spent so long assuming they were all bent on its destruction, others having recognized him with astonishment as the same serving boy who used to stand a step behind the king and wondering if he’s gone mad, to issue such a lofty challenge to one so low.

“Merlin of Ealdor, please come forward.”

One. Two. Three. He’s done this so many times he even knows how many paces there are from here to there. His heart is hammering in his ribcage, but he’s standing tall and proud as he goes, because stitched right over it in the tailor’s practiced hand is the glimmering dragon of his king’s crest, the tangible sign of where his true loyalty lies, plainly visible to all before he’s even given it.

Halfway through. More than half. Now he’s level with the front rows, and Gwaine is hissing in pain and holding his side for some reason—probably a well-aimed elbow from Percival to remind him of the seriousness of the situation. He catches sight of his mentor, but the man quickly looks away, though not before Merlin detects a suspicious moisture in his eyes.

He’s reached the end. He looks up at Arthur, and it’s all he can do not to break protocol and let his face split into his widest grin. The king comes down the steps as Gwen looks upon them from the dais, and their eyes are level for barely the space of a breath before Merlin kneels, lowering himself to match the king’s descent. There will be plenty of time to stand as equals later. The real thing, he notes dimly, is a sight more comfortable than the rehearsals: some thoughtful soul has provided a cushion, embroidered in the red and gold of the royal household, as always.

“Do you swear to practice your magic within the limitations of the laws of Camelot, and in such a way that your actions do not cause any undue harm to befall any of its citizens, regardless of station, in body, mind, or spirit?”

“I do, sire.” Merlin would happily do without this part, because it should really go without saying, but they agreed early on that it was necessary for the people’s peace of mind.

“And do you swear to strive for the benefit of the kingdom, offering both your power and your counsel in all instances in which magic is concerned?”

“I do, sire.” No need for Gwaine’s joking reminders to say it like he means it, now.

“And do you swear allegiance to Camelot, now and for as long as you shall live?”

“I, Merlin of Ealdor, do pledge life and limb to your service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples.”

Merlin can't help himself: he screws his eyes shut at the gentle scraping noise of Excalibur leaving the safety of its scabbard and holds his breath. Then he chastises himself—no, he will face it with his eyes wide open. This will happen only once in his lifetime and he doesn't want to miss a single moment of it.

The tip comes to brush his right shoulder, wickedly sharp. One wrong move and Merlin could slice his own throat open. He knows now why this is said to be the ultimate test of trust: there is no pain, only the possibility of it, one that Arthur is choosing not to act upon. In this one breathless instant, the king is holding his sword in one hand and Merlin's life in the other.

The sword moves to his left side. All he has to do is keep still and it will be fine. He is more conscious than ever that this step is more important for him than for any knight. He knows how vital this is to his acceptance: they must let the people see that the king could sever his head cleanly from his shoulders and has elected not to—but also that there are a thousand ways he could avoid the sting of the blade with just a word and he chooses not to in turn, because his magic is Arthur's, always has been, they're just making it clear for all to see.

Excalibur comes to rest in its scabbard once again, and a fine thing it would be if after all his begging to hear this part, he didn't get to hear it because of the blood rushing mightily in his ears.

“Then by the sacred laws vested in me, you shall henceforth be known as Merlin, Court Sorcerer of Camelot, with all the privileges and duties therein.”

This is it. It's hard to believe anything changed at all, but it has. It's actually happening. Everything he worked for has led to this single, precious moment in time, and Merlin wishes for no other magic than to preserve it forevermore, like an insect encased in amber. The order to rise reaches him as though from miles away, but he doesn't need to be told twice. It's over, and for an irrational second, all he wants is to go to bed and face the rest of it tomorrow, but that won't do. He can't afford to collapse just yet.

There's one more thing that keeps him standing upright: Gwen's beaming smile as he catches her eye and she comes down the steps under Arthur's dumbfounded stare. His turn to go off script. The king is glaring daggers, promising unspeakable wrath in the form of the stocks and whatever unpleasant chore he can find now that he's gone and promoted him, thereby taking away his preferred form of punishment once and for all.

They face the crowd's murmurs of confusion, her fingers resting lightly on his as if in an aborted kiss on the hand, or a lively dance that freezes as the music stops abruptly.

“A small homage for my queen,” he announces.

He takes both her hands now, guiding them into position, and looks her straight in the eye as his own burn gold. “ _Forgiefe blōstman._ ”

She goes tense as he gently coaxes nothingness into substance, but she's ready for it and grabs the stems with reverent fingers just as they form. He plucks the best of spring and early summer out of thin air for her, unfettered by concerns of season and distance, for she has earned that and more for knocking some sense into him: the irises she favors, in the same pretty shade of purple as her gown, and because he doesn't know any better, he conjures roses and pleads with them to forgo their thorns just this once, because the hands of a queen deserve nothing but smoothness, especially hands that used to work themselves to the bone in what seems like another lifetime. He knows his gesture could be misinterpreted in a million ways, but he's not sophisticated enough to know what flowers to give a woman beyond the fact that roses can never go wrong, and so he can only somewhat temper it: when the silky petals shift from a picture in his mind to reality, they are not a bright red that would set the court aflame with talk of clandestine passions, but yellow, like the ray of sunshine she brought him when things looked darkest.

“They're lovely,” she whispers, just barely above mouthing soundlessly, for him rather than the audience, and then she faces them and slips on her public mask, offering her best queenly smile, the one she's practiced in the mirror. He's not quite as trained, but he thinks he can manage an approximation of it.

It's time to face the music. There will be congratulations from friends and insinuations from scheming courtiers, there will be scrumptious food and all the etiquette blunders that come with it, but at least he has not one, but two excellent examples to follow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. That was a wild ride. I may or may not have projected some of my own feelings onto Merlin and based his experience roughly on my graduation...
> 
> Some notes:  
> I think I've seen at least two separate people naming Uther's manservant Holden and having him double as steward, but I haven't been able to track down the canon roots, if any, of this concept. I'm just going with the flow.
> 
> ... Did I just make Arthur give a watered down explanation of J.L. Austin's [performative utterances](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Performative_utterance)? Ugh, thanks, university.
> 
> According to the [language of flowers](https://www.avasflowers.net/blog/the-best-flowers-to-say-thanks/), purple irises and yellow roses are an acceptable combination to say thank you to a friend.
> 
> The spell should, very appropriately, translate to "flowers of friendship"; the word I chose for "friendship" is defined by my customary Old English translator as "favor, both that in which one stands with others and that which one shows to others; favor which one finds with others; esteem, regard, liking, love, friendship, agreeableness, pleasantness, charm, beauty, loveliness, grace; favor which one shows to another; mark of favor; kindness, courtesy, service, obligation, in partic. a mark of favor shown for a service rendered; thanks (by word or deed), thankfulness, gratitude, acknowledgment, return, requital".
> 
> The one for the dragon, naturally, is lifted bodily from the series finale.


End file.
